


His Leather Jacket

by babybluecas



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Biker!Cas, Bittersweet Ending, Bottom Dean, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Morning After, Oral Sex, Season 9, Spooning, Top Castiel, leather jacket, motorcycle, post 9x03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-11
Updated: 2016-10-07
Packaged: 2018-01-01 05:32:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1040926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babybluecas/pseuds/babybluecas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kicked out of the Bunker, Cas left to live his human life on his own. A few weeks later, he and Dean meet again to solve a case together and Dean can barely believe his eyes.</p>
<p>Cas in a black, leather jacket, riding a motorcycle - that's a thing Dean's never expected to see, but he's surely not gonna complain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When Dean sent Cas off from the bunker, he only gave him a backpack stuffed with food and some clothes, and a few one hundred dollar bills, just enough to survive. That was more than he’d had before anyway, and he’d managed pretty fine then. That is until he got stabbed.

Cas is a clever boy, after all, so on their long-awaited, next meeting, Dean expected less stinky clothes on him and hopefully much less blood.

But he definitely didn’t expect this.

Dean’s annoyed, at first, when Cas is running late. He keeps checking the time, sitting on the hood of the Impala and getting impatient, then a little nervous, as time passes by. But it’s not like Cas can pop up wherever he wants anymore, and he surely picked a strange place for the meeting, in the middle of freaking nowhere. Barely accessible for a pedestrian.

He adds driving lessons to the list of things he wants to do with Cas, once he can finally keep him around, then he turns at the sound of an engine getting closer. He hardly spares the approaching motorcyclist a glance, as he lets the guy pass him by. But the guy doesn’t drive by, he stops instead, with a squeal of his brakes and the crunch of gravel escaping from under his wheels, as he makes a half turn. Total show off.

Dean tries to decide between ignoring the guy, if he attempts to chat him up, and telling him to fuck off, even though his leather jacket might be doing things to Dean… Well, “fuck off” that is.

Before he can get off the hood, he needs to lean back again, as the guy takes his helmet off, to reveal a mess of dark hair and an all too familiar face, partially hidden behind the scruff.

“Whoah,” Dean exclaims, at the same time Cas goes with his usual “Hello, Dean,” and the mouth spread in a wide grin.

Cas puts the helmet down and takes off his leather gloves and all Dean can do is watch him, while he, with one, quick move, gets off the vehicle. There’s something in his moves that’s far from the awkward angel, yet somehow holds a lot of the old warrior’s grace and precision.

He stands up straight, with the black, leather jacket, fitted perfectly, just like the tight black jeans. So not Cas-like, yet looking like it’s the outfit he’s been made for. The whole new version of Cas, standing right before Dean, the exact opposite of the man who left the bunker weeks ago, with his shoulders hunched under the ill-fitted hoodie; lost, miserable and alone. This Cas beams with his former confidence and something new, which Dean can’t put his finger on, yet.

“Hey, Cas, that’s- uh, wow,” Dean mumbles, still taken aback, and then shuts up, embarrassed, to which Cas huffs out a chuckle.

Dean takes a second to regain his composure and Cas doesn’t say a word, just waits, running his fingers through his hair, trying to put the wayward strands in place.

“When’d you learn to- Where’d you even get this?” Dean says finally, redirecting his attention to the vehicle.

It’s kind of a junk actually, could use some fixing and a lot of body work, but apparently, for Cas, it is fine as long as it functions as it should.

“My friend gave it to me. She said that if I can get it to work, I can have it,” Cas explains quickly. “And… it’s been a long time, Dean,” he adds with a note of bitterness, hidden behind a smirk.

Dean throws another apology while his mind still revolves around the jacket, the bike, and the friend. But he’s not gonna touch that subject, Cas can have friends after all, right?

“How the hell did you know how to get it to work?” he asks instead, with a dash of irony in his voice.

“Huh.” Cas glances at his motorcycle, then back at Dean, and, tucking his hands into his pockets, he musters all his sass into sarcastic: “Did you know, there are actual books from which you can learn things?” He watches Dean’s face struck with bewilderment. “Who’d have thought.”

“Alright,” Dean sighs, “alright. I’m glad you’ve been doing good.”

Still, he can’t help staring at him marveled, like he’s looking at a different person than the Cas he knew. Like it’s yet another version of Cas, after all, those he’s witnessed so far. Or maybe he’s just forgotten the good, old Cas, before the whole mess with the fall and the mind control and Sam’s crazy. Maybe after all that madness, Cas has just finally found his sea legs and he’s kicking ass again, like he should.

Either way, it’s a good kind of change, as long as he’s not hopeless and hapless. If he doesn’t need Dean anymore and is fine on his own, that’s even better, right? Even if Dean still needs him?

Dean swallows hard at the thought and shakes it off. After all, he was the one who pushed him away in the first place.

“So why’d you call me, anyway?”

To that Cas smiles his little smile, pulling out a leathered journal. And for a second he’s again that dorky angel Dean knew, as he spreads the pieces from newspapers on the Impala’s hood.

Staring into Dean’s eyes, with his unchangeable blue, he tilts his head.

“Because I need your help, of course.”

 

“Dude, this one was so easy I’m actually embarrassed for you.”

Orange light pierces through the darkness of the cemetery, as Cas cradles the lit matches in his palms to shield the flame from wind. The glow licks his skin, dancing with the shadows on his face, so mesmerizing Dean has to look away. Within a second the flame turns into fire, when Cas throws matches down the grave, on the old bones bathed in salt and gasoline.

“You could’ve done it alone, as well,” Dean keeps teasing, still trying to hide how grateful he was hearing Cas’s voice on the phone, just this morning.

“I didn’t want to strain myself digging the grave,” Cas deadpans, packing Dean’s duffle bag.

“So you used me?” His dramatic whisper is covered with layers of fake resentment and hurt.

“Pretty much, yes.”

It’s Dean who starts to laugh first, but Cas follows right after him, a hushed sound carried over the flames.

They take their time, waiting in silence until the flames slowly start to die down on the charred bones. No one can bust their little party in the middle of nowhere and catch them desecrating a grave that shouldn’t even be there.

“So, really, you didn’t call me because of some b-class ghost you practically figured out yourself,” Dean picks up the topic again on their way to the motorcycle. “I’m sure you knew how to do a little salt’n’burn.”

“Yes, I was aware of how it works,” Cas agrees. “But Dean- I’m not a hunter,” he reminds him.

And Dean’s hit with a realization that it is something that he needed to be reminded about. With hunting being the only way of life he’s known, it felt natural that Cas would become a hunter too. But instead, he became this: a regular Hell’s Angel wannabe, with an honest job in a Gas-n-Sip, having friends and an actual life. And under a sting of jealousy, Dean feels he should be happy for him.

“I guess leaving did you good.”

Dean regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth, but Cas just snorts at that.

“You threw me out. So if that’s how you want to excuse it”

“Yeah, I did,” he admits, and it’s good to say it out loud, how much he fucked up. “I’m sorry, Cas. I-“

“Can we go?” Cas cuts him off, taking his place in the seat.

Dean, without another word, readjusts the bag on his back in an annoyingly uncomfortable fashion and takes the helmet Cas holds out to him. He doesn’t push his luck. After all, he never expected it to be easy. No hugging it out until all is forgiven.

He sits behind the impatient guy and, not as shyly as earlier, he grabs Cas’s sides for balance. His fingers claw into the leather of Cas’s jacket, when the machine starts maneuvering among the trees, before reaching the rough, rocky path they rolled up here on.

“Dean!” Cas shouts over the engine’s noise. “You might want to hold on!”

“I am holding on!”

“I mean really hold on!”

Dean’s hesitant at first, but just one glance at the dark abyss ahead, into which the road, way steeper than it seemed on the way up, disappears, and his eyes grow wide.

“Dude, no!” he protests, torn between not wanting to sound like a wuss and not wanting to die.

“Hold on!”

That is the last warning that Dean gets before the roar drowns whatever he’d like to say next and the gasp, involuntarily escaping his mouth.

Suddenly he finds himself all too close to Cas, practically glued to his leather-clad back, with arms wrapped tightly around Cas’s chest. Next thing he knows is they’re rushing down, with the trees on both sides turned into a blur. The wheels jump on the rocks and roots sticking out from the ground and make Dean’s stomach churn because he’s done some jackass things in his life, but all was good, as long as he was the one in control.

But he can’t steer now, he can’t lead Cas’s arms and the calculated movements of his body. All he can do is trust him and his abilities, and, for those few minutes, let Cas be in charge of both of their lives, whatever the outcome is. But hasn’t Dean done that already? Put his life in Cas’s hands, placed all his faith in him when being the most vulnerable?

Angel or not, it’s still Cas, after all. So despite the dizziness and the illusion of nothingness surrounding him, Dean closes his eyes. With no barrier between them, Dean lets Cas’s body guide his, following the machine, leaning from side to side. With their heads close to each other, hidden in the helmets Dean is thankful for, cursing them at the same time, he drowns in the muffled, distant sounds and the blowing air trying to fight them.

If that’s what falling feels like, then he should hold on to Cas with all he’s got.

They go slower and slower when the road gets flat, but Dean still doesn’t want to open his eyes or let go.

“Dean?” The gravel of Cas’s voice forces him to give up.

There are no trees around them anymore, just the broad plains on the outskirts of Cas’s town.

“Hey, we didn’t die,” he replies with a fake surprise, pulling back.

His hands wander across Cas’s chest back to his sides and Dean misses his heat as soon as the cold air floods in the space between them. The rest of the ride is smooth, as soon as they reach the asphalt.

“Alright, you’re pretty decent, I’ll give you that.”

It’s easier to hide the praise behind the usual tease, when he can fully convey it in a smile and the look of his eyes, when he glances at Cas. It’s good to take a breath of air unfiltered by the helmet again and feel the wind in his messed up hair. He’s surely not cheating on his Baby again anytime soon.

“Where are we?” Dean asks, looking around for the Impala, and then following Cas’s gaze when he doesn’t find her.

It’s almost two a.m., yet the lights in one of the low buildings along the street are still on. It’s one of those twenty-four per seven diners that save his life regularly.

“I thought you might be hungry.” Cas shrugs. “I know I am.”

Dean nods and follows him. It’s actually a fucking fantastic idea because he hasn’t eaten since morning and his stomach is not happy with that fact.

The place is almost empty, but a couple of insomniacs sitting by the door, with their heads held low over their plates and half-emptied cups.

Cas leads him to the farthest corner, where they can talk without risking being overheard. People don’t necessary react well to guys with dirt-smeared clothes, talking about ghosts and demons and dick angels in the middle of the night.

Dean watches Cas closely as they choose their orders. It’s hard to judge his mood, after the afternoon of swinging between the good, old camaraderie and the dangerous edge of anger and well-justified resentment. And with the fight hovering over their heads, it feels like Dean’s each word might push the scales to the wrong side.

“You’ve changed so much,” Dean says finally when they have placed their order.

“I’m sorry to disappoint.” The corner of his lips curls up.

“No, I didn’t– That’s not what I meant. Just–” He’s looking for a way to explain, but he can’t find words. He can’t really say what it is exactly, whether it’s the new-old self-confidence or the sass or his fucking leather jacket. But he knows one thing. “You’re different. Good different.”

To that Cas doesn’t blush stupidly, nor thanks for the compliment. He just chuckles shortly and grabs a fry from the delivered plate. And Dean starts to think he could fall in love with that chuckle. He could fall in love with Cas’s scruff, and hair messier than usually, and with that fucking jacket. He thinks he could fall in love with Cas all over again.

“Anyway, you’re the Wild One now, huh?” he continues, trying to get the thought off his mind.

“I’m not any-“ Cas trails off and huffs out a quiet laughter when he catches up. “I still don’t understand your movie references.”

And at that Dean starts to laugh and is flushed with the warm feeling on the inside because that’s still his favorite nerdy angel, right here. It’s still his Cas, too.

“Good. You will,” he assures him with a silent threat of multiple movie marathons with a very unhealthy amount of popcorn and whiskey. “And we’ve found some really sweet, vintage motorcycles in the bunker. You’re gonna love them.”

“In the bunker,” Cas echoes emotionlessly and Dean’s face falls.

In the bunker Dean kicked him out of. In the bunker that’s Dean’s home, but not Cas’s. In the bunker where another angel is welcomed more than Cas.

But Cas still doesn’t know about the last part.

“You’re not a liability,” Dean shoots, finally, and hopes that it’s enough.

But it’s not and he wishes he could tell him all about Zeke. How much easier would everything be and how good it would be to have someone to talk to about him at last. But he can’t, because Cas wouldn’t understand. How could he?

“It’s okay Dean, I could bring danger on you, I understand that.” And Cas is so stupidly stoic about it again, like the last time when they were saying goodbyes. Even if his heart was breaking. And nothing about it was okay. “I’m fine on my own.”

“No, Cas, it’s-” Dean’s voice almost cracks. “It’s about Sam. You know if it was about me… But it’s something that… Ezekiel… did.”

“Is Sam alright?” Cas intrudes him with a note of concern, although the last time he saw Sam, he was perfectly fine.

“Yeah, he, he will be. Just give me time, alright?” He’s almost pleading, because for all he knows, Cas can just get up and say goodbye, because with this new life, he doesn’t need Dean anymore. And Dean could understand it if he did that, but it’s not easy to let go. “I’ll sort it all out, then I’ll come back for you. Okay? I’ll come back soon.”

And when Cas nods his head, Dean breathes a sigh of relief.

“I hate doing this, I really do, believe me.”

Cas is quiet and Dean can tell that he wants to ask, but he doesn’t. He changes the topic, instead, like there’s nothing more here to talk about. And Dean couldn’t be more thankful for it, even if the atmosphere still feels strained somehow. But with what Dean did being so dumb and so bad, a full disclosure surely wouldn’t fix it.

They finish their meals while recapping their last few weeks apart and discussing the angel situation, and all too soon Cas drops Dean off by the Impala.

“Are you sure you’re good to drive?”

“What, you want to take me to your room?” Dean answers before he thinks about it and gets a tiny, dirty smile in response that makes him choke. “Nah, I’m fine, it’s just a few hours drive, I’ll be home by sunrise.”

“Alright, then.”

Cas is suddenly close to Dean, whose back is pressed against the car. The devilish smile still plays on the fallen angel’s lips as they meet Dean’s. Quick, straightforward press, deepened, with heat of Cas’s breath and with scratching of his scruff on Dean’s cheeks. Dean can barely control himself, with his body stiffened, trying to whisper “Cas” against his mouth, and failing with just the tiniest whimper escaping instead.

“The hell was that?” Dean demands to know when the kiss breaks, more shocked at the plot twist than anything else.

“Just trying out.” His answer as casual as possible, but the shit-eating grin gives him away.

“You… you were trying me out?” Dean mumbles, still struggling to regain his composure.

“Yup.”

“Idiot,” Dean comments, and then curiosity wins. “You liked it?”

“I imagined better,” Cas says and chuckles at Dean’s reaction.

And that’s when Dean thinks _fuck it_ and kisses that stupid chuckle off his lips and shows him better. It’s about honor after all. And about Cas. About the closeness and about finally. About for how long he’s wanted to do it and about how many times he had to lose him before he could. And about how he wants Cas here and now and with him in the bunker and about how he doesn’t want to let go anymore.

And then, it’s about Cas’s soft lips and the flick of his tongue against Dean’s and Cas’s fingers caressing his neck, and about Dean’s palms against his fucking jacket he might have to lose later tonight. And about small noises and gasps, escaping Cas’s occupied mouth.

“How about this?” Dean murmurs, barely breaking apart.

He feels Cas smile.

“Hmm, yeah, that’s better,” he keeps teasing, tugging at Dean’s shirt. “What a shame you have to go.”

“Well,” Dean doesn’t hesitate this time, “I think I might not make it home before sunrise.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am aware this fic is nearly 3 years old, but this pwp's been sitting on my drive for a while. The recent arrival of the 100th kudos felt like a good occasion to edit and drop it. So this one's for you, thanks! :)

Dean’s lips, though tightly shut, do a poor job of holding back the little noises, as they rush along the empty street. His breath quickens, his heart pounds like it’s locked on a racetrack, but it’s not the exertion that propels it. Not yet. It’s his thoughts that outrun his legs and the actual fucking butterflies in his stomach.

He throws his hand forward in a half-frantic reach for the feel of leather under his fingers as they wrap around Cas’s wrist. There’s strange lightness in his head that might be a mild concussion from when the ghost pushed him against a tree trunk. Or it might be the intoxication from Cas’s lips on his lips, their shared air, that smug, smug smile.

Cas slows his pace before stopping completely. Dean still runs into him, shakes his balance, only slightly, and causes more noise in the quiet of the night than necessary with his unrestrained laughter. He’s acting like a teenage boy with a dirty mind, but he can’t even chastise himself for it. That will come much later, for sure.

“Be quiet.” Now it’s Cas’s palm tugging at Dean’s wrist and leading him past the wicket and through the garden. “You’ll wake the girls,” he whispers as they pass by the windows.

Dean bites his tongue and holds his air like his life depends on it. He wouldn’t forgive himself for ruining this night. He won’t forgive himself for not ruining it - he’s damned either way. Might as well have some fun.

They reach the back door: new wood in the mismatched, gray walls of the annex.

“Girls?” Dean whispers, his mouth hovering right by the man’s ear. The word took no time to ricochet in his head.

Cas ignores him, fighting the bunch of keys with his trembling fingers, but Dean doesn’t have to see his face cast down to know he’s smiling. A lopsided smile, an “are you jealous?” smile.

“Faster.” Dean presses against Cas’s butt in a payback, lips meet his skin, shamefully hot in the midst of cool nighttime. It’s a special sort of relief to hear the jingling of the metal in Cas’s palm and a delight to know that the brand new Cas has finally lost his cool. “Don’t drop ‘em.”

At last, Cas announces his triumph with a little push back and lets them both in.

The room welcomes them with the very last notes of wall paint peeking out through sharp incense. Dean halts mid-step. He can’t say for shit if it’s sandal or patchouli or whatever else they put in those but the scent feels all too familiar.

Cas notices his hesitation. “Is this a problem?”

He wants to say it’s fine, but nothing comes out pass the wall of his teeth biting down at his bottom lip. He slides his glance off Cas’s scruffy face, loose frame, and wanders into the room. The plain white walls, cold in the cold light, the scrappy desk, the mess of a bed, narrow and tucked into the corner.

He sways on his heels, stuck on the threshold like a ghost.

“Where you, uh, doing—” he trails off, unsure what exactly he wants to accuse Cas of. Unsure how much in between here and then this fallen Cas is.

“Painting,” Cas finishes for him, sparing him the utter embarrassment. “The smell of paint made me nauseous.”

No knowing smirks or raised eyebrows is a nice gesture, too. One Dean can’t fully repay.

“And this doesn’t?” The tension slowly leaves his body as he steps in, seals them in, inside the small bedroom. Just the two of them, no orgies, no drugs, thank God.

What was he thinking?

“I’ll open the window,” Cas offers, turning his back on him.

He leans over the desk despite Dean’s assurances that it’s fine. The hem of Cas’s jacket lifts with the raise of his hand, uncovering the curved lines of his all too tight jeans. Dean thrusts his palms deep into his pockets, but the flicker of his tongue across his lip gives him away. Shame Cas isn’t even looking his way.

“It’ll be cold,” he protests, too late. The air from the crack is on his skin already. It’s not even that cold.

Cas tilts his head to the side as his eyes return to Dean. There isn’t a speck of the confused angel in the gesture. Not when his hands are busy with the zipper of the jacket, sliding it open tooth after tooth.

“Oh, really?”

Dean swallows, his throat feels like sand. His legs sink in the firm cement of the floor, arms are lead. Whatever chill he thought was there is already gone and he might just start burning if he doesn’t take a step closer, help Cas with that jacket and those pants.

In the end, taking that step turns out easier than it seemed and Dean smashes into Cas in full momentum. His lips are again where they were supposed to be all along, wiping that grin off Cas’s face. He can hardly keep his hunger at bay, restrain it for just long enough to sear the taste, the texture, the moment into his memory.

It must be impossible to get tired of it. Of Cas. Of his tongue, of the brush of his beard on Dean’s face, of his hands wandering underneath Dean’s shirt, slipping behind the waist of his jeans, strong, pressing Dean’s hips closer to his, where his cock’s already grown half-hard.

The more Dean is given, the more he craves. It’s been too long that he’s needed it, ached for the closeness, this closeness. Too long since he’s first dreamt of the glow of these blue eyes piercing through him as he’s being fucked. So long that he’s learned by heart not to need it. But that test’s over for now, he can finally forget. He can finally have it.

As the hold on his ass loosens, Dean’s eyes flutter open. His lips follow Cas’s until they escape him. The flow of oxygenated air into his lungs is the only thing keeping Dean’s discontent whine in — Cas needs to breathe too. Cas is human and his face glows, flushed, his lips swelled, his hair stands up where Dean’s fingers sank into it. He’s fucking beautiful.

Dean takes a step back to take him all in. He’s still the same eyes, and beard and jacket and jeans. The jacket now slipped off one shoulder, barely holding up on the other. His shirt, raised, reveals a slice of his stomach. It’s a shame to take that damn hot jacket off, really, but sex is always much more fun naked and he can’t have both. So he helps him with that jacket first, it slips off easily and lands on the back of the chair. The black t-shirt hugs Cas’s chest and arm tightly, pronouncing his muscles Dean never expected, obscured completely by that ugly, oversized coat for years. Now Dean can’t get them out soon enough, nearly ripping the t-shirt off of him.

Well, fuck. Dean bites his bottom lip. Cas’s body he somehow never even considered during those years of hidden fantasies. In this moment, Cas’s body is everything he wants. To run his fingers across the gentle packs and grooves of his torso, to kiss the golden skin, to have it held against him as he’s pinned to the bed by this sexy fucker.

Cas might not read Dean’s mind anymore but he’s more than well aware of his thoughts, because he flexes near instinctively, shows off his muscles like he would once show off his wings. And this time, Dean doesn’t need a rolling thunder to want to drop to his knees.

“So, you’ve been working out?” Dean mutters with a forced nonchalance. His fingers stumble on the buttons of his shirt.

Cas smirks. “I’ve helped with the construction over the summer.”

That would explain the perfectly maintained tan, and the shirtless implications of that don’t escape Dean. Had he known sooner he might have just screwed the whole hunting gig and become Dean the builder. Luckily for him, he’s now getting more than just topless goods sans the sacrifice of his smashed and chopped off fingers. What's a little, permanent moral hangover compared to that?

Before Dean can gather his tongue off the floor and wave the thin-veiled boasting off, Cas swats his hands off the buttons that just won’t fucking co-operate. The traitors turn out to co-operate very well with Cas’s fingers, but even that is going too slow. With a frustrated grunt, Cas grabs the hem of the shirt and pulls it over Dean’s head.

The cool air has no time to rid Dean’s bared skin with gooseflesh when Cas draws him close, presses against his own, warm body. He pulls him in by the belt loop as they return to their previous place. The old, sturdy desk creaks tiredly under Cas’s ass but doesn’t move. Nearly on his toes, Dean towers over the guy, exploiting the brief illusion of control he’s been given. It’s still Cas’s firm grip on his hipbones that steadies him, it’s his fingers in Dean’s hair that lead him in for a kiss.

When their lips finally collide again, his teeth bite, his tongue slips in and puts up the fight, his body sways to a ragged rhythm. Each back and forth draws a gasp from Dean’s throat as his hard-on brushes against Cas’s thigh that slipped between his legs.

“There’s a bed over there,” Cas reminds him when they come out for air.

Dean needs a few more breaths before he’s sure of his voice. “Oh, really?” he teases.

“Yes.” Cas’s tone is solemn and Dean huffs a laugh into his face.

With one hand on his chest, Dean pushes Cas away, just a few inches, just so he doesn’t miss the tiny smile. Without turning his eyes, he can see the bed on the periphery of his vision. Four, five steps away, close enough for his weak knees not to give up under him before he gets there.

“Good,” he murmurs, his arm building the distance between them, feet are back firmly on the floor. “Race you there,” he challenges, confident of his chances.

But before Dean can do more than a step in the direction of the bed, a tug at his waist keeps him in place. It’s the man’s fingers, tucked into his jeans, that won’t let him go. There is no letting go, they’ve wasted too much time on being apart, whole years of it. For tonight they’ll count the time in their shared breaths, in their synchronized steps, as Cas leads Dean backward to the bed.

He’s freed of the pesky button and fly and pants before his calves hit the wooden frame of the bed. Cas lets him down easy on the hard mattress. It’s old and narrow, which kinda sucks, but Dean’s used much worse for the very same purpose. This one, at least, doesn’t give off the specific stench some motel beds offer. Cas’s bed smells of flowery detergent and the lingering hint of that incense. Sheets, fresh and clean, still carry the creases from folding.

There’s not a speck of guilt in Dean for being the one to get them all dirty tonight. He’ll have an accomplice, after all, the one whose tight, tight jeans land on the floor next to his. The one who climbs on his lap, sets a trail of kisses from his sternum, along his throat, until he finds his lips again.

Dean’s hands don’t remain idle. There’s the firm torso for him to explore, stretching above him. Inch by an inch Dean's fingertips crave to discover, they trace in awe the sculpture of Cas's body, travel through the fields of flexing muscles of his back. All that's been hidden from him for so many years, all that he can have now.

All that’s not enough, still too far away. Even as skin clashes with skin, Dean’s fingers bite red marks into its golden canvas. God, he wants him so badly, every part of him, and he cannot get it fast enough, ‘cause he’s only got two hands, one mouth, one body. And Cas, this fallen, this very human Cas, is just so much.

Dean misses Cas’s lips as soon as he rips his away, befalls them to his lover’s collarbone, exchanges sweet saltiness for wet streaks and a promise of a hickey in the morning. He licks his way lower until the perky nipple catches his tongue and his tongue teases it in slow, slow circles ‘til the lowest moans escape Cas’s throat, unfettered. Hot. So fucking hot.

Soon the moans are joined with Dean’s, as the sway of Cas’s hips grinds their groins together. Almost together, damned be the two layers of cotton that still separate them. Dean’s palms travel down the man’s spine, find the edge of elastic, tug at it, pull it down. Cas cooperates, raising to his knees so Dean can slip them off his ass. Dean’s tongue catches the path of short hairs below the navel. He follows it down, down—

“Hey, there,” Cas disrupts him.

Rougher now, he’s got Dean’s hair in his fist, yanks his head back so their eyes can meet. There’s playfulness in the lopsided smile and his raised eyebrow, there’s softness in his eyes. And hunger. And God, that look, that smirk, those fingers still tight in his short hair — Dean wants him, but Cas— Cas wants him too. Just as badly, just as hastily.

He arches his back, leans low, hands on Dean’s shoulders, lips hanging just an inch from Dean’s ear.

“My turn,” he purrs and throws Dean to where’s his place, on his back.

The rough timbre of the command sends chills down Dean’s spine. He holds on to Cas, to his arms, to his neck, to his hair, as Cas keeps slipping lower, praising Dean’s skin with his warm lips. He’s slow, meticulous. He’s so much better at it than Dean and he’s got his own exploring to do. On the juncture of his shoulder; across the length of three ribs; and then right below them — Dean knows perfectly the places over which Cas’s tongue lingers. Hunter trophies: islands of scar tissue that tarnish his body. Cas kisses each one of them: the stab wound over his hip bone and the claw marks in the thigh. And then some more, like he’s bent on tasting every single freckle to make them live up to their name.

It’s his turn, indeed, and Dean complies. His hips respond with a rise to the hands pulling at his boxers, his cock eagerly erects as its freed of them. And before the whole of Dean begins to miss him when he disappears to discard the remnants of their clothing, he’s back, lips marking his way up Dean’s inner thighs.

“S’torture.” The hunter growls, knowing exactly where those lips need to be, needing them there now. “Come on, Cas.”

He reaches Cas’s face, fingertips graze the prickly stubble. He’s answered with a wide grin and eyes nearly black in the moonlight coming through the window. Cas doesn’t break the gaze as he slips out his tongue and painfully slowly slides it along his shaft. It’s the dirtiest, indecent thing, seeing how the angel has fallen. That poor, once so innocent guy, now with his mouth closing around the tip of Dean’s dick. His cheeks flushed, eyes wide, red, puffy lips softly embracing Dean.

His tongue teases, circles the head, its tricks worthy of the podium in the cherry knot contest, and Dean’s eyes shut tightly, his head sinks into the pillow. Then Cas’s head moves down, enveloping him with its warmth, steady, up then down, each swing deeper, each faster. Dean’s fingers curl in the man’s black locks. His throat releases the filthiest moans as Cas’s throat gets fucked.

“S’good,” he musters between the moans, overwhelmed, as Cas leads him towards the fucking edge. “S’good, Cas, fuck.”

He’s so close, so close to coming into Cas’s mouth, having those red lips glistening, corners brimming, white trails spilling out onto his chin. But that’s not what he wants. He’s gotta stop Cas, he’s gotta stop his mouth from moving, and tell him. Because no, it’s not about simply getting off, not about deepthroating Cas, because that’s— that’s not close enough. He wants— no, he needs Cas closer. The desire comes like a sudden revelation and it does surprise Dean a little but it just feels right. It’s not enough to have Cas’s hands on his ass and his mouth around his cock. He wants to feel Cas inside of him.

“S-stop, Cas,” he pants through a clenched throat. “Not yet.” His fingers slip to Cas’s face, hunting for attention, his mind searches for the right words to ask for it. “Fuck me, Cas,” he settles for the simplest profanity. “Fuck me.”

Cas’s eyes dart up to his. The movement slows down, but he doesn’t stop until Dean’s low grunts turn into pleading.

“Fuck me.”

There's missing heat when Cas rises on his arms and knees, climbs over Dean until he can look him directly in the eye.

“Are you sure?”

Dean takes a deep breath, filled with the smell of sweat and sex and Cas. He doesn’t answer right away, although, yes, he is certain he wants this. But there’s something dense gathering in the pit of his stomach and, fuck, of course, anxiety. Dean Winchester is nervous during sex. Leave it to Cas to make him go all Madonna on this. Or maybe it’s not really on Cas, but on Dean being an actual virgin in the world of buttfucking. But isn’t it what sex is? Not just the desire, the pleasure, the fun, but trying out a new thing or two every now and then? Just when Dean thought he had tried it all.

Cas’s eyes still stare at him, awaiting his answer, trying to read it out of his face in the meantime, but his face shifts away. Dean cups it, before it can disappear off sight, embarrassed of the misunderstanding. But there was none, Dean’s thumb runs along Cas’s cheek bone, and before giving the answer, he shoots his head up for a brief kiss.

“I’m sure,” he says, at last. He tests out the words on his tongue, “I want you inside me.”

Cas’s mouth spreads in a grin.

“Be right back,” he says and, to Dean’s dismay, stumbles off the bed.

Dean holds back a frustrated growl. Eyes follow the man to the pile of clothes on the chair.

“In my wallet,” he offers, but Cas goes straight to his own jacket, apparently even sexier than it looked at the first glance.

Cas is prepared better than with just a condom in a wallet.

“Seriously?” Dean raises an eyebrow at the pocket-sized bag of lubricant.

“I heard it can come in handy.” Cas tiptoes back to bed. “Well, it’s about to.”

Dean doesn’t ask from whom Cas heard such a specific piece of advice, nor in what circumstances. When Cas comes back to hovering over him, he pushes the thought away entirely. Looking at the man, all he can think of is _mine_. If only for tonight, Cas is all his. This handsome fucker Cas, with his hair matted to his forehead, eyes cast downwards, focused on his fingers ripping up the foil, slipping the rubber on.

Then the other foil pocket comes to works and the knot in Dean’s stomach tightens.

“You’ve never done this?” Cas asks, reading his mind, or maybe just his lips that the teeth bite into. Dean responds with a nod. He doesn’t ask the question that comes to his mind. It’s another one of those he doesn’t need an answer to. “I’ll be gentle,” Cas promises sweetly and puts his free hand on Dean’s knee. “But you need to relax.”

Dean nods again. He shifts his full attention to the stray tufts of Cas’s hair sticking in wrong directions, as Cas guides his legs up. He fixes his eyes on his wet, swollen lips, his skin silver and blue in the moonlight, as Cas pours lube on his fingers. He lets Cas occupy every last bit of his mind until there’s no room for anything else.

Cas leans closer, his slick fingers graze along his crack until they reach the spot. He doesn’t take his eyes of Dean’s when he enters.

The tip of the finger feels alien at first: uncomfortable, intrusive, trying to slip somewhere it doesn’t fit. Its movement is slow, systematic, patiently circling round and round, until Dean’s muscles loosen. Just as the stuffed sensation goes away, another finger comes in to feel the space. But this time there’s Cas’s mouth occupying Dean’s head with kisses, there is Cas’s erection rubbing against his throbbing cock and Dean’s no longer sure he’ll manage to hold back until Cas enters him.

But then Cas shifts. His body falls lower, his fingers slip out leaving an emptiness behind. Dean readjusts his legs on Cas’s shoulders, as Cas applies the remainder of the lube, the pocket drops to the floor.

“Ready?” the former angel asks, reluctantly deserting his lips.

“Yeah.” Dean’s voice comes out too faint and he makes up for it with a more confident quip, “Give it to me, big boy!”

A brief salve of Cas’s laughter enters his ears as the man readies himself to enter Dean. He guides himself in, just the tip, first, teasing around Dean’s asshole. Breath catches in Dean’s throat when it slips in. Cas’s eyes, inches away, never leave his face, watchful of his every reaction, searching for the slightest sign of protest or discomfort. But when none comes, when all that can be found in Dean’s eyes is desire, Cas swings his hips, the first push tender, partial, before retreating.

It’s deeper the second time, still Cas fills Dean with no haste, sway after sway, until Dean’s brimful of Cas. He’s got Cas exactly where he needed him, close enough, finally. His fingers dig into Cas’s back, arms clutch him tight, not to let him go when his thighs shift away.

Another thrust has Dean biting down a wild howl when Cas hits his prostate. The collision sends a shudder up Dean’s body, arches his back. Buzz in his ears nearly blocks out the hot grunts that escape Cas with every pump.

“Fuck, oh God, Cas, fuck.” He pants over the tired squeaking of the old springs underneath them as Cas’s moves become faster and faster.

They swing back and forth to their own, synced rhythm. Burning heat of their bodies, raspy breaths, the scent of their mixed sweat. The air clinging to their skin is drenched with them. With their long-craved intimacy, the overdue fulfillment. With two bodies melting into one. With one body fucking the other senseless. Finally.

If only their finally could last forever, when there’s only Cas and there’s only Dean and their bodies intertwined. But Dean was doomed not to last long from the start. The white hot pleasure floods him and he surrenders. His muscles that tensed with his attempt to delay, wait until Cas is there as well, now only tense at the release. Caught in the friction between their stomachs, Dean’s cock shoots across his chest, rips a muffled cry out from his throat.

“Fuck.” Dean’s head sinks into the pillow, lungs pump the air in and out in a frantic pace, racing his heartbeat. His mouth keeps repeating the only word it knows. “Fuck.”

His arms still hold onto Cas, Cas’s hips keep on thrusting against Dean. Their bodies keep on rocking. Pearly drops of perspiration roll down Cas’s face. There’s a change in his breathing right before he comes, and when he does, a shiver shakes his body, twists his face. He collapses in Dean’s embrace, head rests on his shoulder.

He takes a moment to collect himself before pulling out of Dean. Now it’s the unbearable absence that brings Dean some strange discomfort.

“I just did,” Cas mutters in-between the gulps of air, rolling off Dean into the tight space on the mattress next to him.

In the post-orgazmic haze, it takes Dean a moment and Cas’s complacent chuckle to catch the pun.

“Asshole.” He snorts without thinking the weak comeback through.

“Now you’re just asking for it.” Cas grins and saves Dean from making his situation even worse kissing his mouth shut.

They lie in silence only disturbed by their heaving breaths that slow down with time. Their foreheads are pressed together, bodies drawn close to fit the narrow bed.

“Well, that was—” Dean begins, tilting his head back to look at Cas. There’s a lot of words that could describe it, from incredible to awesome, to _high time_. He decides on none of them. “Different.”

Cas raises an eyebrow. “Good different?”

Dean licks his lower lip playfully, corners never drop as he shrugs. “Oh, I don’t know,” he teases. Shifting his legs to roll onto his back, he grimaces. “My ass is gonna be sore for a month, isn’t it?”

Cas doesn’t answer. His gaze glides over the spray of come on Dean’s chest, then moves to the desk behind him. Of course, Cas has baby wipes in his desk. He pulls out a bunch of them and begins to clean Dean’s skin, soft scent joins the mixture in the air.

“Worth it, though.” Dean flashes a grin and steals a kiss from the man.

“I’m glad you think so,” Cas says, face bright. He throws the used wipes to the floor and pats Dean’s shoulder. “Now turn around.”

“Whoah, you’re not touching my butt again,” Dean blurts out but the softness in Cas’s eyes tells him that’s not his intention, so he complies.

He doesn’t mind when Cas wiggles closer to him when the heat of his chest presses tightly to Dean’s back. Only briefly he tenses when Cas’s arm surrounds him, palm finds his, their fingers interlock.

“I’m the big spoon,” he protests but puts up no resistance. The embrace feels too good, too comfortable to reject it.

The fallen angel leans in to peck his neck and whispers an non-negotiable, “No, you’re not.”

Dean smiles. Left with no other choice, Dean slips his foot between Cas’s in a sign of complete surrender.

The night grows colder as their senses slow down, but falling asleep in Cas’s arms Dean feels nothing but his heat. It just seems so right to be dozing off with him there, like that’s where he’s always supposed to be. Their naked bodies matching like puzzle pieces under covers, ankles crossed, Cas’s breath brushing Dean’s nape.

It feels perfect.

Too perfect.

“Cas?”

Dean’s whisper sounds like a thunder shattering the silence, still not as loud as it did in his head. It has come sooner than he expected it. It’s still so long until the morning light. It must be ‘cause he didn’t fall asleep quick enough, while the buzz from sex still clouded his head.

Cas must have been luckier, dreaming right behind him. Maybe it’s better this way, maybe Dean can still drop it and enjoy this one night. Maybe for those few hours he can pretend it will all still be right in the morning.

But Cas is not asleep, yet, his thumb rubs circles into Dean’s palm, slow, soothing motion.

“Hmm?” Cas murmurs and Dean’s forced to mull the question over and over again.

It feels so chewed up already. Those four words mean giving up so much and they feel like a knife he’s ready to plant into Cas’s heart. But Dean has already done enough of that, hasn’t he? Cas deserves better than that.

Dean opens his mouth, but all that leaves it is “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Cas answers, pressing the tip of his nose to Dean’s neck.

He’s close, somehow even closer than he was before. The movement of his thumb doesn’t stop for a long, long time, and when it does, Dean knows he drifted off for good. He’s only got himself now who can listen to the echoing question, to the relentless “What have we done?”

But Dean hasn’t got an answer.

 


	3. Chapter 3

The early morning seeps in through the curtains. Its light, still gray, is too weak to drown out the darkness completely. It paints ashen the wall right before Dean’s eyes as his eyelids open slowly, putting up resistance. He couldn’t have slept for more than a few hours. His head lies heavy pushed into the pillow, his limbs seem glued to the strange bed.

But the drowsiness is not the sole reason why his body won’t move an inch. It’s the warmth pressed along his back, his legs tangled with it. The heavy hold around his waist keeps him in his place like a vice. It doesn’t take more than a heartbeat for the alien shape to take a form. Cas. It’s Cas, holding him tight, their bodies still locked in as they were when they fell asleep.

Dean’s heart flutters in alarm as his breath catches in his chest. Last night’s passion was not a dream, not this time. It could have fooled him; after so many nights that only teased him with more than the corporal fulfillment, taunted him with all that he craved for and all that he couldn’t have. After the mornings in empty beds, with aching between his legs and aching in his chest.

This time, he has gotten it, gotten Cas. He’s still got him, firm body radiating heat, shielding him from the chill that has flooded the room through the window left ajar. So it did get cold, in the end. It always does. Sometimes too soon, sometimes too late, when he’s just gotten complacent, happy. The cold comes in suckerpunching him with regret.

“Fuck.” The word escapes him before he can bite his tongue. He awaits a single movement behind him, a sleepy moan announcing that Cas stirred awake. But it doesn't come.

It will, sooner or later, and Dean will have to come eye to eye with what he's done.

He should have never let that happen. Not with Cas. There are so many warm bodies he could have used. Pretty women crowding the bars with a spark in their eyes and playful smiles. They’d spread their legs before him at the very wink. Their tender touch, their soft skin would have given him all the physical comfort he wanted.

He could have gotten sturdier forms, made of wide shoulders and big hands, not-so-straight from one of those bars that spell their names with rainbow letters. They’d pin him down and fuck him good and they’d be just as new to Dean, unknown shapes, undiscovered terrains.

But it wasn’t about the forms and bodies, was it? It was not about the pleasure and fun and anything purely physical. It was about Cas. And that is the worst part.

For how long has it been about Cas? And more importantly, what the hell is he supposed to do with that now?

Stall. That’s usually the best option. Flee and stall. If he plays it right, if he slips out of the warm embrace into the cold air of dawn and sneaks out quietly, he could go on stalling this for as long as Sam's got the angel inside him. Until it's too late, probably, and Cas fades into just another person in another town that meant something to Dean for one night and never cross his mind again.

Only Cas will, he’ll leave a huge fucking hole inside him, just like he has every time he’s died or disappeared. Only worse, because this time Dean will know he made this for himself. Drove Cas away, because he couldn’t keep it in his pants. Isn’t there a rule about never having sex with your best friend? After that the only way through is out.

And it’s that much worse with making love to your best friend: you end up with a trap of his body wrapped around you and the out gets slightly more complicated. And it’s slightly more tempting to just stay when it’s just so goddamn cold outside.

Dean pulls off the corner of the sheet, the air raises goosebumps on his shoulder instantly. The evenness of Cas’s exhales on the nape of his neck lets him know Cas is still asleep when Dean’s palm reaches his, that he doesn’t wake up when he pries his arm off his waist, gently, slowly pushes it away and rests on Cas’s side, as he swivels out from under it. Freed, he props himself on his hands and sits up in a weirdly twisted position.

He turns to throw a hateful glance at the open window. His feet yank out from between Cas’s and the man shifts, his breath catches. Dean freezes and holds his breath too until Cas's steady rhythm of inhales and exhales returns. His eyes are still closed, his nose buried in the edge of Dean’s pillow.

Dean shifts his gaze to the pieces of his clothing sprayed across the floor, as he tries to locate his entire attire, so he can grab it all at once as soon as his feet land on the ground.

“Dean?”

Fuck. He’s got a few seconds at best to reacts, decide between an ‘it’s okay, sleep’ and hopeful silence. Though Cas’s voice is still hued with sleepiness, Dean knows it’s naive to hope for his soft call to just fade as he drifts back to sleep. But the moment’s passed and Dean’s mouth didn’t move. So the latter it is.

“What time is it?” Cas asks, his eyes still closed.

Dean licks his lips as he struggles not to tumble down from his awkward position over Cas’s legs, halfway to the floor.

“It’s super early, like, five, I think. Sleep.”

Cas makes a small, discontented sound and shifts around until he’s on his back, eyes half-opened and fixed on Dean, caught red-handed. He hangs there, all freezing and naked, awaiting Cas’s accusing question. But the question doesn’t come.

“It’s cold,” he says, instead.

Whether he’s talking about the cold air in general, or just about the cold bed without Dean’s heat beside him, Dean doesn’t know, but it seems like a good excuse for his failed attempt at the escape.

“I know. I was just going to close the window,” he lies, bluntly, hoping Cas buys it and he can get himself another hour or two of peace.

He finishes his interrupted jump to the floor and makes it towards the window, ignoring the burning gaze of Cas’s eyes on his bare skin.

“Right,” Cas mumbles, “I’m sorry,  forgot about it last night.” He shifts in the bed again, as Dean shuts the window close. “My mind was a little preoccupied,” Cas adds, to Dean’s horror, with a chuckle he doesn’t even bother to tame.

The sound, though the most innocuous when it comes to the ‘I got laid’ variety of chuckles, makes something tighten in Dean’s stomach. It only clenches harder as Dean turns, slowly, unsure of what he’ll see when his eyes fall on Cas again, whether his mouth won’t smile that mischievous smile, his eyes won’t be darkened with desire. Unsure whether he’d be able to protest if Cas’s strong arms reached out to him and pulled him in just to push him on his back.

But Cas is turned away from him, returned to the previous position in which their bodies clicked perfectly together. Dean’s spot, warm and narrow, still inviting. Cas’s fist wrapped around the edge of sheets waits, eager to cover him.

Dean doesn’t need to hear the sharper, deeper inhales disturbing his even rhythms to know Cas is awake and growing impatient with every second Dean stands over his head, thinking through his next move. Not that he’s got any options. Leaving now would call for more questions than if he never planned to leave. And Cas wouldn’t fall for lies so easily this time.

Dean’s palms rub across the goosebumps still covering his arms. Just a foot away there’s warmth inviting, back in that embrace that felt so right a few short hours ago. A few minutes ago waking up inside it was the easiest thing to do.

It can’t hurt to climb into Cas’s bed again, shut his eyes for an hour, thaw beneath the sheets, before walking out into the hostile morning air and driving miles and miles until he reaches the home that doesn’t feel like home at all.

And so he does. He lets Cas wrap the sheets and himself around him. But there is no comfort in that hold this time, it’s too much like lying on the edge of the cliff, not daring to move in fear of falling. At least, when he falls back into his slumber, it’s quick and hard and warm.

 

The next time Dean wakes up, there’s no grayed wall right in front of his eyes. Instead, there’s the room spreading before him, swimming in the yellow glow of the sun that still hangs low over the horizon. That’s not by far the biggest change, the only reason he was allowed this switch of view is the lack of a body next to him. Though the air is not so cool now, the empty bed feels cold and wide. The excess of sheets has got Dean tangled in them and it takes him a moment to find his way out and sit up.

He listens in to the silence, for any signs of Cas’s presence, but the door to the bathroom is wide open and there are no sounds of splashing water or the man’s shuffling as he gets himself ready for the day. And there’s no leather jacket hanging off the chair, no clothes lying around but Dean’s. Dean finds his jeans discarded on the floor at the feet of the bed and plucks his phone from the pocket. It’s hardly past six on a Sunday morning. Cas never mentioned anything about going to work.

Had Cas ever watched a movie, or learned a little bit more about human customs, Dean would expect a little note lying on the pillow. He checks, anyway, just in case. On the pillow, between the sheets, and on the floor, too. But there’s no ‘had to go to work’ or ‘left to grab some coffee and fresh buns, be right back.’ There’s nothing and there is no Cas.

It’s kind of ideal, isn’t it? He didn’t want the talk, the questions, so now there are none. He wanted to slip out without the goodbye and Cas did just that, for him, left him alone in the morning light. Enabled the escape he so seeked a slumber ago. He should be glad. But it just feels like a punch to the chest.

Maybe Dean’s just not used to being the one left in an empty bed. Even if he’s used to Cas being the one who leaves. But it’s his own fault this time. Cas isn’t dumb, he won’t take every poor excuse, even if he can pretend well. He must have caught up to Dean’s plan, never let it on his face how empty his lungs suddenly felt when he realized.

Or maybe that’s just the way this new Cas is. Planned for this to end this way from the start, from the moment he pulled his bike to a halt, swung off it like a walking commercial. All leather and charm and sex. He got Dean to hold on tight to him, breathe in the adrenaline and his scent. He pressed their lips together, dared Dean to show him, got him drunk on desire. He must have gotten it set up from the very phone call to the morning after. The revenge for kicking him out—

No, God, no. How can he think that, for even a second. That’s not Cas. The guy who gazes at him like a child gazes at the stars. The guy who praised his skin with his mouth like a marble statue, like he’s fucking worth it. The guy who just wanted to make things easier for them, to spare them both the bitter goodbye and maybe save the scraps of his own dignity in the process. And Dean’s an ass for twisting it around because he got dumped and he cannot stand it.

At least leaving bed isn’t hard this time, without the warmth. And the room isn’t so cold anymore. Except for the floor. But Dean gathers his clothes and has got shoes on within a minute. He only slips into the small bathroom to take a piss and brush his hair with his fingers. He left all his toiletry in the car anyway, he’ll have to stop by a gas station to wash his teeth and get some grub.

Within three minutes he’s ready to walk out on them. On whatever they could have had, that they have started last night. He can only hope that it’s a pause, that they could still pick up where they leave off now if they’ll want to. That they’ll both want to. He can hope that those upcoming weeks, months, however long it’ll take ‘til they’re allowed to see each other again, won’t tear them into pieces, won’t fade this night out until it’s nothing, won’t change Cas into someone who can finally see all faults in Dean, all his broken parts mended with crap, and knows better than to want him.

But there’s nothing that can guarantee him that. Maybe staying, right here, right now, would. But he won’t know. Not when his hand presses the doorknob, when the fresh air of the morning crashes against him. Not when the door locks behind him.

The way to the parking lot turns out to be much shorter than it felt last night. He gets there without getting lost and without accidently stumbling upon Cas. The Impala still stands where he left her, thank God. In the parking slot next to her sits Cas’s bike, unmoved since yesterday, since Dean’s fingers untangled from the leather and he stepped off on the asphalt just to get trapped inside Cas’s space. Yesterday already starts to feel like years ago.

He slips into the driver seat, puts his hand on the wheel, but doesn’t fire up the engine. For a moment he’s content savoring the familiarity of it. Everything finally feels right, for the first time since he fell asleep in Cas’s arms.

There isn’t a living soul on the parking lot beside him, he still takes a slow glance around, turns to the path that leads to Cas’s place. His temporary, borrowed place. He forces himself to take the eyes off when no figure in black appears on the horizon. Maybe, just maybe he hoped—

He shakes his head and pulls out his phone to text Sam.

_ Caught some z’s after the hunt. Be back in the evening. _

He sends the text and silences the phone before dropping it on the seat next to him, screen down. He’s got fourteen hours of driving ahead and he really doesn’t need the distraction. He turns the key and pulls out of the parking. He makes sure not to turn to the road by Cas’s friend’s house.

Fourteen hours on the road, and he makes sure not to spend a minute thinking, analyzing, regretting. He turns the volume up and lets the lyrics and the melodies fill up his brain. He bursts into a song at the top of his lungs whenever his mind starts slipping into all the wrong places.

The evening’s turning gray by the time he pulls up before the door to the Bunker. He swoops the phone on his way out of the car, lights the screen out of habit. There’s a text waiting on him, sent an hour ago from a number he didn’t have a mind to add into his contacts but doesn’t fail to recognize.

_ Let me know when you arrive at the Bunker safely. _

Dean smiles. A wide, relieved smile. The weight that he’s done a solid job of ignoring all the way, though it only kept growing with the distance, slumps off his chest. Maybe it’s all not as bad as he thought and they haven’t fucked it up completely.

Leaning back against the side of the Impala, Dean starts typing.


End file.
